


FIC:  Poisson d'avril

by Hippediva



Category: John Wilmot - Fandom, Lord Rochester
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva





	FIC:  Poisson d'avril

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current location:** |  [Charleston, SC](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Charleston,%20SC)  
---|---  
**Current mood:** |   
amused  
**Current music:** | wind blowing  
**Entry tags:** |  [fic](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/tag/fic)  
  
_**FIC: Poisson d'avril**_  
Make that catfish down here, y'all.

And a very happy birthday to his Lordship, John Wilmot, the Second Earl of Rochester. 359 years young.

He woke late, the coffee was weak, the toast was dry and he was alone with a raging head and a few minor blank spots glaring at him from the previous night's revelries. He rang the bell until the rope damn near broke and cursed fluidly for five minutes before the new maid poked her head into his room, her eyes wide, blueberry-dark, fair hair escaping from her cap in untidy tendrils.

"Yes, m'lord?"

"What bloody day is it?"

"Saturday, m'lord." She giggled and blushed. "Fool's Day."

His birthday. He'd almost forgotten, between his wife's ongoing battles with his mother, the King's with Parliament, and his own with anyone, everyone.

Her cheeks were rose pink and he let his gaze travel.

"Is there anything you want, m'lord?"

A slow smile started in the dimple near his drooping mouth, spreading across his face like oil over water. He arched one brow and pushed his dark hair out of his face.

"M'lord? Is there anything you want, sir?"

"Oh, yes."

She wouldn't get the dusting downstairs finished for at least another hour, maybe more.

  
She played with his hair and giggled into his shoulder, smelling of starch and warm sweat. He stretched and rolled over to watch her eyes, grey-blue as the afternoon sunlight spilled across the Turkey carpet to tangle in her damp curls.

"What's for dinner?"

"Fish, m'lord."

He grinned. "In faith, my dear, that was breakfast."


End file.
